Invocation to autumn

 

I have stared out a window for hours
as summer bowed its head

at October rain, at banana-yellow leaves
glistening, tumbling in slow-motion
sighing with nature

as autumn overcame, as wraiths
sorrowfully caressed withering roses
with bony fingers, as ravens
sang hymns

but my soul changes
always, it puts on a worsted cloak
grey and speckled brown

a page turns slowly, as though
the story is a familiar one
read many times and
I smile

joining melancholy muses and romantic rebels
reveling in dreamt sage scented vortices
whirling like dervishes
biding farewell to swelter and
buzzing things

the prayer is then lifted and I whisper,
“Rest well honored flora and fauna
but before you close your eyes
see the pumpkin-orange painted sky
at dusk, before you sleep.”

Yes, I Would Mourn

Should you die
I would lament to the wind
tearing at my clothes
cursing the darkness
for taking my light

for a short season
there would be not one iota
of joy, smiles would be banished
my pillow would certainly
remain damp

there would be a spiritual battle
within, fitful dreams
stark awakenings and
fist-clenching
prayers for strength

until the storm passed
I would cling to
photographs
covet your love notes with
head hung low
breathing in and out

and the silence
would rage

but like spring’s song I would
stir, to recall your words
once spoken, “Don’t grieve too long, please
live and be happy.”

A Foreshadowing

I saw an ebbing portent in clouds
over the peaks, a blur
of rain falling with gray tendrils
and august sighed

wraith winds blew from the north
I rubbed my face
as a man long in the tooth
thinking of lustful
summer days
gone.

September will blink and autumn
will sashay in like a
boisterous gypsy spreading
wafts of sage

there will be burnt-orange offerings
fluttering, umber talismans
and whispers when
dusk greets
harvest moon

all of this I see
as the birches wax humble
with their yellowing tresses as
ravens caw reminders
to tarry not

the mountains are solemn
they are the wise men
watching.

Autumnal Nocturne (Kyrielle)

 

 

Bleed spirit, into bronze-tinged night!
Lift me above chiffon clouds height
To whirl and whirl amongst moon’s glow,
Melding with the crisp gold tableau.
And Luna’s breath will fill my sails
Or perhaps November’s brisk gales!
Brushing tall tops of the willow,
Melding with the crisp gold tableau.
Carry me, carry me aloft,
With a Northern gust’s robust ‘waft!’
To soar with hawk and cawing crow,
Melding with the crisp gold tableau.
O’er shimmering lakes and loons call,
Sashaying grand with lovely fall
Cross fields dreaming of spring’s farrow,
Melding with the crisp gold tableau.
From chimneys sage-like smells would taunt,
As I flew by on midnight jaunt
Through yellowed dell and bronze meadow,
Melding with the crisp gold tableau.

This Faulted Shell: passing

 

I grasped it
in a daydream moment
breathing in
and out
bright vignettes
blurred one into another
almost teasing
of course, there were tears
but not mine
soft fingers caressed
hoary thin flesh of my hand
I felt trembling lips
kiss mine
and…

 

 

 

 

 

And Yet You Shine

A zither descant rides wind through the trees,
Clouds pirouette like maidens in chiffon,
Summer’s hot day allows night to appease
On a lake, moon-glow highlights a lone swan.

On snow-topped mountains, on drifting sand dunes
Piercing the darkest forests with your beams,
A grand mood setter for lovers and loons
You even preside in most of our dreams.

Oh, ancient bright orb that hastened bards reach,
That spun many hearts and minds in a whirl
With your polished wisdom you softly preach,
You are God’s dangling necklace of one pearl.

Oh, bright overseer spinning in space
I pray that you ever shine on each face.

Ireland (Kyrielle)

It called to me with siren song,
With unseen grasp it pulled me strong
In dream its verdant hills were showed.
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

Took hours to travel there by air
And sweet it was like luscious pear,
From Dublin to south Cork I rode.
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

The folk were friendly chatty types,
Many preferred to pedal bikes
Through big cities, down country road.
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

And there a certain spirit pled,
From ancient castles they bid, “tread!”
And oddly my time there, it slowed.
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

I smiled at penny whistle tunes
And buskers with their heart-felt croons,
Life was savored, the Guinness flowed.
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

I laughed, I danced, my spirit soared
In wee pubs they played Celtic chord,
I heard a raptured heartfelt ode,
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

The time spent there I’ll not forget
Like a remarkable sunset,
It was a lovely gift bestowed.
Across the jade green isle, I strode.

Our Unspoken Canon

When this imperfect world tilts
we roll the other way
grasping one another’s hand
regal, like a Da Vinci painting and
life
is our canvas on which
we splay rich colors
of our souls

we have stopped the sand flowing
for time is of no import
rapt in these crystal moments
magnified
we worship our love, we
adorn ourselves in
Eden’s glory

on this raft drifting, midst calm
or tempest, we cling to tender embrace
to the promise of genuine smiles and
a new morning’s epiphany
of caresses.

Concrete and Silk

I.

I’ve lain on both
when I did not care the difference
numb, dispirited, saddle leather calloused
as though
I had journeyed many miles
with no smiling faces to greet
only to collapse
on a post-apocalyptic beach
staring at a sun
draped in the miasma
of hades.

II.

Where does spring rest
during winter’s breath-stealing
occupation, where
are the seeds of hope stored?
I like to think they are
hunkered in prayerful hearts of
grandmothers, warmed by
midnight novenas, plucked and kept
close to blazing-hearth breasts
of doting souls

III.

The twitch of needful things
the irony of silence
broken by a soft, “Hello”
is a page turning, eyes
cleansed of fog, rain blessing
fallowed, fissured ground.
And life stirs.

IV.

The bane of heartbreak
is compassion
the enemy of darkness
is a candle lit.

Reaching For the Stars: The Creator’s Approving Nod

As children, we sat around bonfires telling

ghost stories, our screams drifted

and lifted glowing embers

that much higher

 

we fashioned bows and arrows, climbed

oak trees to dizzying heights

scrapped our knees, felt the angst

of puppy-love…

 

a dizzying journey from there to here

stumbling countless leagues, scars and heartaches

are badges and sagas, I’m a bit worse for wear

a tad greyer for opening heavy doors and

bravely stepping across thresholds, no less a man for

steering through the raging oceans of tears

and correcting my course

 

off the six-lane highway onto the path

less trod, following the

still-small voice

so calming

like somber autumn’s

meditative verse.

 

I’ve looked back at myself in dream

in a mirror, I saw my youthful

inquisitive summer face

and behind me was;

the present me

 

looking up and smiling, reaching for the stars

wearing wisdom like a humble sage, glad

to see the Creator’s approving nod.

A Twist of Fate and Love is Born

~The story of Cupid and Psyche: A Constanza Poem

 

A plot with evil purpose grew,
o’er Psyche, from a jealous heart,
‘twas Cupid wounded by love’s dart.

And if Psyche had only knew,
could she have changed this scheme wound tight,
that wed her to the darkest fright?

Would crimson love have changed its hue?
to slip into soft silky dream,
and what would come of thwarted scheme?

If not for subterfuge and rue,
would such a story have its worth?
Would romance sorely suffer dearth?

We’d not know of these epic two,
of soulful ardor and its plight;
if not for fate and spirit’s might.

A plot with evil purpose grew,
and if Psyche had only knew,
would crimson love have changed its hue?
If not for subterfuge and rue,
we’d not know of these epic two.

 

©Michael J. Donnelly 2018

 

If You’re Not Living, Then You’re Slowly Dying

The, ’it’s just another day’ look in someone’s eyes
subconsciously makes me caress my scars, it even
irritates me a bit, hell, feral dogs have more drive
than some humans I’ve met.

Theory and daydreaming are separated by only a
thin veil between; focus and a step forward.

Social drones, luckless spirits with smiles saying,
“I did this, I’ve done that, I’m going to do it when,”
listen to the little devil on their shoulder
whispering, “Save it for tomorrow.”.

Sloths, climbing about in trees generally have
more ambition than some people, at least
they’ll risk death for a hook-up, for a quick,
‘wham bam, thank-you ma’am.’

Thirty-somethings living in their parent’s basement,
snowflake’s melting under neon lights at happy hour,
bitching, they can’t tell you when they had
their last job interview…

shake off downy fledgling fluff and fly, crawl or run
sink or swim, but just do something.

Scrapes and bruises are merit badges, emotional and
physical scars are; earned purple hearts and silver stars.

If you’re not challenging yourself, you’re not rising
above the hapless daily gloom, hell even dust bunnies
grow with enough momentum.

I heard an old man say once, “Quit your bitching, stop
your damn crying, if you’re not living, then you’re slowly dying.”

That saying still makes me smile as I challenge the day and
slap Satan silly like a pimp slaps a whore, sending him
staggering down the street
talking to himself.

© MJ Donnelly 2018

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